


Stressed Spelled Backward is Desserts

by vanillafluffy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Be safe out there y'all, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton has a wicked sense of humor, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson - Freeform, Dessert & Sweets, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hangry Clint Barton, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Quarantine, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: After too much togetherness, Clint is brooding in his man-cave while Phil fusses in the kitchen. What's it going to take to smooth over this rough patch? Whipped cream and strawberries should do the trick!Added to the original post--Clint is very stubborn and has a wicked sense of humor. Get the message?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020





	Stressed Spelled Backward is Desserts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ami_ven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/gifts).



Quarantine is getting terse in the Barton-Coulson residence. Clint is in his man-cave, supposedly working out…mostly, he just needs to get away from Phil, whose OCD is taking on monstrous proportions. 

Phil’s been in the kitchen the whole morning, apparently reorganizing every single thing in it. Great, now it’ll take ten minutes just to find the ketchup--Clint is disgusted. Like that's not bad enough, every half-hour or so, he’d come into the living room and bitch about Clint loafing around in his underwear. What’s his problem? At least he’s wearing underwear!

The man-cave has purple walls, because Clint won the coin-toss. He’s been in here scowling for long enough to spell out “NUTS” with darts on the far wall. He’s slurped down a grape soda from the fridge in the corner while contemplating what form of passive-aggression his petty revenge should take.

Finally, Clint straddles the weight bench. He may as well do some reps while he’s in there, since he can’t go out for bow practice--he doesn’t want to soften up.

He’s on his third set when the door opens quietly.

Enter Phil Coulson, with stoneware. A big bowl is cradled in the crook of his left arm as he ambles over to his straining partner.

Clint lets the bar come to rest across the support. He glances at the intruder. “Yeah?”

Phil raises the spoon from the bowl and his eyebrows. “Fresh whipped cream.”

Way to wreck a perfectly good bad mood…”Yes, please.”

Phil extends a heaping spoonful and feeds it to him.

The silky texture is divine. Clint savors it, then moans as the second spoonful includes a chunk of fresh strawberry. “Oh, no…not whipped cream and strawberries. Are you trying to fatten me up in case there’s a meat shortage?” He’s mildly guilty about being a grouchy sloth while Phil’s been busy making goodies. 

“Right. You and Natasha, like Hansel and Gretel.”

Clint jack-knifes to a sitting position. “You’ve heard from her?”

“She made contact a few minutes ago. I gave her your love. She’s self-isolating in Dublin.” Phil studies him. “I know you’ve been worried about her.”

“I miss her. It’s been eight weeks. And yeah, I worry about her--but Dublin? That's great. There are way worse places to have to hunker down. Meanwhile, I’m so cooped-up in here, I’m about ready to start target-shooting that billboard across the street.”

Phil grins and offers another spoonful of heaven. “All I ask is, if you do that, can you try not to spell out anything that’s going to offend the neighbors?”

Clint has a lot more arrows than he does darts. “Wash your hands.”

“You’re the one who needs a shower,” Phil points out. “Go take care of that, and when you’re done, there’s something even better in the kitchen.”

With the door open, the air in the apartment is perfumed with sugary sweetness. “Shortcake?” Clint asks hopefully. Phil smiles and hands over the bowl and spoon, which Clint hands back scraped clean in short order. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he tells Phil, trying to give him the least sweaty hug he can.

“Go. Shower.” Clint goes with alacrity, returning in shorts and a tee shirt to the kitchen, where whipped cream and strawberries are filling a trifle bowl that also contains slices of pound cake. 

Phil does this once in a while, though not lately…his take on afternoon tea, with some big, fancy dessert. Last time, it was home-made donuts. He’ll herbal brew tea for himself. Clint opts for milk today, although the donuts had called for coffee. They’ll eat their fill of the treat now and have a light dinner later in the evening….

“Thanks, Phil,” he belches, when the waistband of his shorts is snug. 

“Thank Natasha. Sweeten him up, she said.” Phil’s lips twitch. “Although the cake was already in the oven at that point.”

They may drive him nuts sometimes, but Clint knows that nobody in the world gets him like his best friend and his partner. “Great minds think alike.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Okay.” Clint bounces up, enthusiasm surging. Natasha is safe and Phil is spoiling him. Life is good. “Now to go spell ‘Wash Your Hands’ on that flippin’ billboard---”

*****

“Those assholes!”

Phil glances over at Clint, who’s peering between the blinds, gazing across the street. “Which assholes? Is it a crime in progress?” He reaches toward his phone on the chair-side table.

“I’ll say it’s a crime!” Clint is indignant. “They’re taking down my message!”

Four days ago, the archer had used arrows to spell out the words “Wash your hands!” on the billboard on the roof of a building on the far side of their street. It had taken upwards of an hour, because he hadn’t wanted witnesses, so he only shot when no one was in sight on the street below.

Afterward, he’d been much calmer and Phil thought that was the end of it…but somebody had noticed it and footage of the uniquely defaced billboard went viral. It’s shown up on Phil’s Facebook feed, but he very carefully didn’t share it with his partner. Clint doesn’t need any encouragement to indulge his sense of mischief.

“Too bad,” is Phil’s mild reply. “I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”

A snort. After a few more minutes of glaring at the oblivious workman, Clint leaves the window…and the room. 

Listening closely, Phil hears the door to the basement open, followed by the sound of footsteps going downstairs. He relaxes. Let Clint work off his restless energy cleaning out the cellar--it needs it.

He rises and stretches. Goes over to the window and opens the shades. Sure enough, the workmen are in the process of re-skinning the surface with fresh advertising. Phil sighs. Clint is sure to take that as an invitation to leave another message there…except he’d been down to his last couple arrows when he’d finished. Okay, crisis averted.

Dinner, on the other hand, isn’t going to make itself.

Beef Stroganoff is in the works when Clint comes clomping back upstairs. He has a big brown cardboard box over one shoulder and he’s smiling.

Phil knows that smile. It’s not good. “What’s in the box?”

“A full case of arrows,” Clint says with savage satisfaction.

*****

Clint’s second message displays the words “STAY HOME!” 

The next day, word is already out. It’s on the noon news that this particular billboard has been defaced yet again. They show the first message on a split screen, and Clint grins at the TV, pleased by the recognition of his handiwork. 

“What are you going to do?” Phil queries, because Clint looks too pleased with himself.

“I already did it.” He chuckles, and that innocent smirk is anything but. “Just let me know when they came to take it down, huh?”

There’s a two-man crew on the roof the following morning. 

This time, Clint leaves the blinds up to watch the men at work.

Phil hovers nearby. “You didn’t use something that’s going to blow up when they pull it out, did you?”

Clint cackles. “Not quite. Here.” He hands Phil a telescopic sight, which he hadn’t needed for such an 'easy' mission.

The workmen are stolidly taking down the arrows and dropping them to the rooftop, being careful to stay at least six feet apart. They’re both wearing masks, but no gloves.

“They weren’t wearing gloves last time, either,” says Clint, watching the proceedings with a diabolical smile.

The last arrow--it's the dot on the exclamation point--comes free, and the man handling it pulls something from the shaft and unrolls it.

“You put a note on an arrow?” Phil asks as the man drops the arrow and the paper, looking agitated. 

Clint is shaking with laughter as the second guy produces what’s apparently a bottle of hand sanitizer and squirts it into his cohort’s palm. Maybe next time, he’ll wear gloves. Meanwhile, Clint has tears running down his face and he can hardly breathe, he’s so tickled by his little joke.

The new billboard goes up displaying a PSA for the Red Cross Blood Bank. “Great!” Clint approves. “All that blank red space, the next one’s really going to show up!”

By the time Phil wakes up the next morning, Clint has found enough white-shafted arrows to spell out, “DONATE!” It certainly does pop against the red background, Phil has to admit.

While it makes the news, this time no one comes to remove the arrows or change the sign, not the following day or the day after that. 

Finally, Phil’s curiosity gets the better of him. “What did that note say, anyway?”

Clint sticks his tongue out and wiggles it. “I said, ‘How do you know I didn’t lick the arrows?”

…


End file.
